Crash
by bellatrixD
Summary: Fred surprises Angelina one night. She's conflicted on what to do. Eventually, she crashes. Inspired by Taylor Swift's Style.


_Another one-shot! Yay! Thank you to Taylor Swift's Style for being the inspiration behind this. This is fun. I feel like writing more! Any suggestions? I'm more than happy. Although, if you hadn't noticed, I've got a thing for writing about Fred and George Weasley._

_Disclaimer: I do not own the original Harry Potter characters or the song from which this fanfiction is inspired._

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A car screeched in the distance, disturbing the peace of the dead night where the foxes yelped and scurried from the noise. The buildings were devoid of any light or life, playing dead in the background to the activity before them. Its wheels intensified in their rolling and the engine roared closer to the figure walking down the road, her thick, curly hair blowing around her.

She had to jump when the car swerved on the road before her, blocking her from crossing to the other side, no headlights – more secrets. The door opened, and she saw red.

It was quiet in the car, no music or idle speech accompanying their journey to her house. Neither knew what to make of it, the silence. It would either lead to the splendour of momentary euphoria or burning flames, spitting words and volcano explosions. They had no in between in the spectrum of their confusion between love and hate, they were two ideals separated by distance, distance which he broke tonight, the first in a long time. Two months, she guessed, it had been since she last heard from him. And yet, his presence did not come as a surprise.

The world blurred outside the windows, a fusion of green trees and brown buildings. Only the dull colours appeared. The colours would come after with the satisfaction of answers. He turned down her road.

This was a repeated scene she thought had long since expired. Hopefully, she thought, he had grown up, sorted himself out in the freedom of the world, no restrictions and silver platters from school. But apparently not. He had never worked hard, not in the sense in which all other students did, not that she ever saw. He had only ever applied himself to his own selfishness, what he wanted, how he wanted. She wondered how she ever came about in this repeat scenario, from teammates to…what were they – lovers? Play things? Friends? It was never clear. Not anymore. He stopped in front of her house.

Words tingled on her tongue, the polite thank you for the ride, the order to make him leave without what he came for. She was not in the mood to deal with it, the consequences, the roundabout they always seemed to circle like a child's game of Duck, Duck, Goose. In the end, she was always the Goose. Her ten hour shift had tired her out both mentally and physically and she wanted rest. Fred Weasley was not associated with such a term. He turned the engine off, submerging them into total stillness.

She looked over to him, ready for her goodbye, but he had that look in his eye. That sheepish yet mesmerised daydream glaze he only ever seemed to get when it was just them. It was the look she could never say no to. It was _her_ look, reserved simply for her, which made it that more special. His eyes flickered to her lips, and his own tilted up from the corners. He had always loved it when she wore red lipstick, although she was sure there was not much remaining after her hundreds of licks to them.

Their adventure (is that what she considered it?) always started off like this. He would enchant her in ways no one ever could, she would fall, they would crash, they would survive, and they would do it all again. Her friends had always joked that they were perfect. She never saw perfection.

His red hair was long – he knew much she loved running her fingers through the long, silky locks – and he wore a white t-shirt and denim jacket, plain with jeans. It was simple, completely contrasting their relationship. He undid her in terrible, wicked ways, ways in which she had promised herself not to unravel. He had to have turned up on the hottest day of the summer so far, the day she wore her shortest skirt. She could see the fire from the impending crash in his eyes. He could see it too. He also saw the clear blue of their return.

Blue eyes clung to her as they sat in the car. In swift movements attributed to his agility and skilful feet he pulled her out the car and to her front door. She couldn't say no.

The house was dark. Her mother was out for a conference miles away, staying in a hotel, and her step-father was in another country for a funeral. A shiver from the top of her head to the tips of her toes – was it Gods way of telling her she was sinful? A warning? A taste of the pure heaven she would forever miss out for the humid smoke of hell?

She heard him take off his jacket and throw it somewhere, anywhere. Heart thumping wildly, she struggled for verbal acknowledgment, a delay of some sorts. She didn't want to crash.

"What are you doing here?" she said, her quiet voice seeming thunderous in the silent night.

No sound came from him.

"Katie said she saw you a while back. The other day. She said you were with a girl," she swallowed a nervous lump in her throat. Sweat tickled her neck and forehead. "She mentioned seeing you with her a few times. Why are you here?"

"Kates was right," he said, his voice like melted butter in her ears. "But it was nothing. You...you're not nothing."

"Fred, I can't. Not again."

"Angel…"

"Stop. This has happened far too much."

"I can't stop thinking about you."

"Fred…"

"Angel," he was standing right in front of her now, his breath, both sweet and spicy cooling her boiling skin. There was no light, but she didn't need any to see him. "My Angel."

He had that look in his eye, the glazed over daydream look that she once wanted to think was love. Her look. The look he saved and used only on her. It made her feel special.

His thumb came up, gently grazing her full bottom lip, the red most certainly washed away by the sweat of her upper lip. And then he leaned in, reuniting their lips.

No sweetness from their first, second, fifth kiss. They jumped right in. His hands in her bushy curls, hers on his firm torso, nails scratching at the white t-shirt, desperate to touch his familiar skin once again. Behind her eyelids she saw colour, bright yellows and vivid reds, explosions only he aroused.

Every kiss she saw the same colours but dancing in different patterns, magnetic to their every touch. It was in their sixth year at school they had first shared a kiss, the only time the colours had flared into a storm and electrified her every nerve. Every time since then had been duller, but still so powerful.

Their friends had joked that they were the picture perfect couple, him with his cheeky, funny guy persona and red hair no one could mistake (unless it was his twin, then very few people were in absolute clarity as to their identity, Angelina being one of them), and her with her cocoa skin, smooth and silky, tall and lean physique, wild hair which constantly changed. They looked wonderful together, which, she guessed, was the reason they had tried so hard. Even when they broke it off they were never as visually beautiful as when they were together, leading to them falling into each other's arms again to feel the bliss of physical flawlessness.

It was vain of them, they knew, to only accomplish their needs with the one compatible only in looks. Their personalities clashed far too much and too often to maintain a stable relationship. That was why they never knew the outcomes of their clandestine activities: they were both unstable and ready to fuse in either one way or another. This fuse was going his way. They were going to crash.

She slicked his hair back behind his ears only for them to fall back into his face again, tickling her own like falling feathers. He pushed her into a wall and ground into her. It had been far too long, no time for playing.

His lips left hers, trailed down her neck where teeth nipped and his tongue sucked. She gasped, overloaded by the multitude of touches and feelings he was evoking. Her eyes flew open as her shirt fell, and she caught their reflection in the mirror opposite: her long legs wrapped around his stocky frame, hair mussed and electrified, clothes dishevelled. He tilted his head, and she saw red on his pale, inviting skin.

"Angel…" he groaned into her ear, husky and pleading.

And she was gone, crumbling beneath him, forcing him into her room and reacquainting her body with his, over and over again throughout the night.

Yellow and red. Fire. They crashed.

They never went out of style.


End file.
